“Writing factory?” Hugo said.
“Willy Wonka had his chocolate factory where he tortured and rewarded children. I have my writing factory where I torture and reward children. Only on paper, of course.”
He gestured toward a collection of typewriters—a half dozen or more manual and electric typewriters. A red Olivetti. A black Smith Corona. A pale blue Royal. A neon pink Olympia. All of them looked older than Hugo by at least a decade or two.
“Typewriters?” Hugo asked as Jack sat behind his desk, an orangetypewriter in front of him with “Hermes Rocket” stamped on the top in metal. “Bit old school there, yeah? Don’t use a computer?”
“Too quiet,” Jack said. “I need something loud enough to cover the sound of my characters screaming for help.”
Hugo was starting to think Jack might be a little touched in the head.
“More fun too,” Jack said. “Even Thurl likes to help me write. Come here, Thurl.”
If Hugo had noticed Jack’s pet raven, he’d have thought it was a statue or something and ignored it. Couldn’t ignore him now, flying from a perch by the south window to land on Jack’s desk by the east window. A raven. A real live black raven with a wingspan the length of Hugo’s leg.
“That’s a raven.” Hugo pointed at the bird. “Where’d that come from?”
“The sky,” Jack said, stroking Thurl’s glossy wings.
“A big beast, innit?” The shock must have shown in Hugo’s face.
“Oh, he’s just a baby. Well, a big baby. Thought you had ravens in London?”
“Got the Tower Ravens, but they don’t let us take ’em home. Always wanted to,” he admitted. “Couldn’t figure out how to hide a raven under my coat.”
“You can pet him. He’ll let you.”
Hugo had to pet the raven if only to tell Davey he’d done it.
Slowly he approached the bird, who seemed more than content to sit on Jack’s typewriter and peck at the keys. It looked up when Hugo approached, ebony eyes gleaming.
“All right, mate,” Hugo said as he slowly stroked the back of the bird’s sleek head once, then twice, and after that Hugo’s courage ran out. That beak looked sinister. But once he stopped, he wanted to do it again. He gave the wing a stroke and Thurl allowed it, didn’t even seem to mind. Maybe old Jack was mad, but he had good taste in strange pets.
“Found him half-dead in the woods after a windstorm. No mother in sight. Hand-reared him, so now he’s too tame to go back out into the big blue yonder.”
“He’s brilliant,” Hugo said, daring to stroke the bird’s glossy head again.
“Glad you like him. You two can be friends.”
Hugo was smiling and Jack had caught him. He didn’t like anyone to catch him smiling. Serious artists didn’t smile. They scowled.
He snatched his hand back, shoved it in his pocket.
“So how do we do this?” Hugo asked, getting down to business.
“You’ve read my books, yes?” Jack asked as he slid a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter and started hammering away at the keys.
“Yeah. To my brother, Davey.” He had to raise his voice over the typewriter.
“And my editor or someone at Lion House explained the process yesterday?”
“The brass told me what to do and how to do it.” The art department at Lion House had given him a long lecture on the cover-making process. The Clock Island books were special, he was told, in that the covers were still painted as opposed to being computer designed. Jack’s preference (though the way they said “preference” made Hugo think it was more like a “demand”). The paintings would be displayed at book events and school visits, donated to children’s hospitals and family shelters. Then they gave him a list of requirements—medium, paint, dimensions. He might have walked out except they also told him how much he’d be paid per cover, which got him to sit down and pay attention. Peanuts compared to what Jack made per book, but it was more money than he or his mum had seen in a lifetime. So now here he was, in Maine talking to a madman with a raven for a co-writer.
“Then go on. Paint. Have fun.”
“I need a bit more help than ‘Have fun.’”
Jack kept typing and as he typed, he recited:
